


Tear You Apart

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, F/M, Fights, First Aid, Metafiction, incestuous thoughts, no action on those though, would we call this hurt/comfort?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: Dirk and Rosebot spar. It's not as unmatched as Dirk would like.
Relationships: (imagined) - Relationship, Rose Lalonde/Dirk Strider
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	Tear You Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixw_bLVUL34)

I think I've got Rosebot flustered.

No, not like that. How many times do I have to—You know what? Not important. I'm setting a scene here, dropping you in _in medias res,_ breaking the fourth wall because I know you and I know what you want. You're welcome. I'm here, I'm obnoxious and I'm sweating. No. Not like that.

Rosebot faces me, twenty feet away and bent slightly forward, needles level with her knees; poised, in short, to wreck my shit. And Rose Lalonde in any iteration is not an unformidable sight. She has my slightly long face, my strong chin, anime-large robot-eyes that are perma-set on kill-mode red (and ain't that a triumph of hyphenation). But she's flustered, I can tell. And not only because I can read her mind. The tip of one of her needles lies broken on the ground next to me, my trophy from her last advance. She's flustered because she's so much more than she was and she'll still never land a blow on me.

If she weren't so much like me, I think she would have quit already. She doesn't _have_ to spar with me, she could follow Terezi's lead and pussy out, as I've suggested she do in the most intentionally derogatory way possible. But she is like me and there's something inside her that needs to fight, that needs to feel real in the body she exists in, that needs to rise to my challenge, no matter how unfair that challenge is. Maybe especially because the challenge is unfair.

Because it is unfair. I'm an unfair dude. I built her. I've never built a robot that could beat me and I never will. But that isn't to say that _she_ can't beat me. If it were me in there, I wouldn't let my metallic limitations prevent me from doing as much damage as I wanted to do. I fully believe that she has the potential to rise above how I've built her, as I believe Davebot does too. I'm not so much of an idiot as to program my own demise, but I'm not so little a father that I don't want the kids to succeed.

I twirl my katana in a cocky and unnecessary way, but she doesn't rise to the dare. I smirk at her. And do it again.

She moves faster than even my eyes can track, but I could be blindfolded under my shades and still win this. She has a major limitation that I didn't even program into her: she takes the most path most lit by fortune, every time. 

So I block the strike she aims at my ribs, then the one at the back of my head, at my eyes, needles skidding off my katana without breaking each time. But enough of the defensive. It's important to let her have a turn, but let's not go too fucking far. 

I swing my sword clean and simple at her torso, which she blocks, at her head, also blocked, then let her come at me again so that we can play the parry game again. This time it goes longer, a flurry of blows that are so expertly delivered that I stop counting them and keep my focus on where my weaknesses are, where I would strike and therefore where she will (my instincts align with the correct way in which she fights almost perfectly).

But it's me. So when I catch her with an elbow in the robotic not-gut, she goes flying.

Like the gentleman I am, I catch her. With my foot, because I ain't no kind of gentleman, misleading as my hot Texan accent is. I kick her up several feet before she engages her thrusters and avoids the next slash of my sword. After a few cursory parries in which we both avoid dying, she flashes backwards and out of my immediate reach.

I let her, because I saw the opening I'd be giving her if I reached for her neck to keep her close and I like the tendons in my wrist where they are. I look across the divide between us with paternal amusement.

'How's it going, kiddo?' I ask ironically. 'Need a half-time? I can cut you up some orange slices.'

_'I_ am not the one who's sweating,' she says.

Which is true, because she's a robot. I lift a shoulder self-effacingly and pick up the hem of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead and where it was dripping down my cheeks, threatening to get in my eyes. It's one of those human foibles I don't mind so much, building up a sweat. I lick my lip just to taste the salt of it, the proof of my exertion. It reminds me of sparring with Jake, even though he never shot to kill and Rosebot only aims non-lethally when it's more strategic to chance a blow that would merely cripple me.

'If I didn't know any better I'd think you wanted to be disassembled,' I say.

'You do know better,' she says. 'Check in three moves.'

A grin spreads across my face in gracious reward for the delight she gives me. I adore her, I really do. Who else could match my ego like she does? She's perfect, a fact that I admit with pride. The threads of the best parts of her are all wrapped around and through my programming, in all honesty _improving_ the work I've done. And while I designed and built her form, the inspiration her human body provided has made for the most aesthetically pleasing robot I've ever been responsible for, that _anyone_ has ever been responsible for. If she managed to kill me before Dave has his chance, I wouldn't even mind that much.

'Is it my turn to advance?' I ask.

'You know how I value your advances,' she says.

I ignore her transparent attempt to off-balance me, which is only note-worthy in its ineffectiveness. The ground is too well trod there for that to bother me and she never could say worse than I was already thinking. _Not_ in terms of innuendo, Christ, I mean as a broad category. Her words just don't have power over me. 

I wonder what constitutes a move. I wonder what constitutes a check. Of course, I always am the one to mate her, as the parlance goes. Are _you_ feeling unbalanced? Perhaps not.

I flash towards her while my katana is still so loose in my hand that there's danger of me dropping it so she doesn’t see it coming, and I'm rewarded when she doesn't quite escape. I don't let myself pause to appreciate the two-inch-long fissure marring the metal work on her upper thigh, because I'm not a fucking idiot. I block her return blows and am pleasantly surprised when she manages to shove me two steps backwards. That's the reason it's worth fighting her, besides the fact that it relieves some of the intense restlessness that fills me with a need for a good ol' scrum. Though she has her weaknesses, she's still _lucky._

'Check in two,' she says, before I can close the distance again.

Sometimes I hate her smooth, auto-tuned voice. The silence between steel on steel is only punctuated with one person's ragged breathing. I glance down to see the damage I did, but the cut is hidden by the drape of her skirt, even accounting from the way I tore it with that strike. My lip curls in frustration. But I don't need to see the proof to know that she's inferior to me and her counting will not get into my head.

I adjust my grip so that the heel of my right hand reinforces the hold of my left and aim for her throat. She blocks with the cross-section of her needles and throws my sword down, arcing her needles through the movement and using the momentum to aim for my leg. My sword's all wrong to block so I dodge, skipping back in a way that, to be honest, I'm not wild about.

'Check in one,' she murmurs in a voice that sounds like Siri reading a Harlequin novel. Yeah, this'd be one of the times that I hate her. At least I know she hates me too.

I grit my teeth and hold my sword in a ready position, no longer remotely fucking around. We watch each other, looking for a sign that the other is going to charge. We both know we're not going to see some clumsy opening on the other. Sometimes I understand the way I've seen Terezi dive on her like a feral animal. It must be satisfying to use tooth and claw like that. But this is better, this isn't some chemical foolishness where the endgame is something as meaningless as getting off. This is about domination.

She's the one to make the first move, and she does so with such typical, all-in style that I can't remotely see how she thinks this is her win. She launches herself in a feint towards my eyes (classic Lalonde move) and dodges under my blade, going for my gut. But I saw it coming and I parry her needles away.

The thing is, she saw _that_ coming, too. 

She pulls back one needle just before my katana comes into contact with it and she stabs it into the back of my forearm while my sword is still engaged with her other needle. She doesn't do the thing where she meets my betrayed eyes before pulling back, because I don't do the shocked stillness bullshit either, she is free and stabbing at me again in under a second and I just manage to backhand her wrist away to avoid further damage. But she has two needles and two hands and she whirls the other towards me. I have to admit, I'm genuinely not at my best here, but I can recover. 

'Will our worthy cause doom you to a Heroic death, father?' she asks as she drives me backwards, on the defensive and dripping blood goddamn everywhere. I have no idea if she truly believes in our mission or if she's fucking with me, and that is more alarming than the wound. I always know.

She manages to get her feet under mine and we both go down like a couple of virgins who were assembling their first sex swing and got caught up in the fucking straps, a simile not based on any real life experience, obviously.

She lands on top of me and I drop my sword so that I can stop her at the wrists before she actually kills me. 

'Check,' she whispers huskily.

But not mate. I'm stronger than her, I mean, god damn, have you seen these guns? So she's not getting out of this grip and she can't make the final move. 

'Which of us has more stamina?' she asks. 'I think it's the one with the uranium core. I'm content to wait until you fatigue to kill you.'

I glare up at her, not that she can tell. I think she wants to stab me through my shades, and I have to admit I like the mental image. There's an irony to it. But I'm not going to let her, of course. My sword is on the ground next to me, but if I reach for it then she'll kill me. Her weight is planted in her knees on either side of my hips and I don't think I can dislodge her easily. My right arm gets a sudden tremor and I glance down at the blood still leaking from its wound. It's a shame I don't play fair, because she definitely deserves to win. Next time she should really focus on separating me from my computer.

I mentally type in a command and her body slackens. I catch her by the shoulders and twist us both so that I can lower her to the ground under me, where she belongs. And, because I'm a vindictive motherfucker, I pick up my katana and gut her like a fish.

I touch the tear in her casing and use my shades to make sure all of her is still inside or attached to her. I can replace whatever I've broken, but I don't want to sully the ground with our _detritus._ My blood is an unavoidable consequence. Perhaps it will cause hemlock to sprout and our children will force a philosopher to consume it for the crime of corrupting the youth. There's some metal filaments and the tip of her needle to recover. If I hadn't put her out of commission, I'd make her do it.

It is how it is. I don't regret my actions. It isn't even accurate to say that I have a temper, because I wasn't out of control for even a moment. _Wrath_ is the better word. I collect what I need to and then carry her like a bride back to my cave so that her internal components stay internal. Her head lolls in a distinctly not-human way that might unnerve someone who wasn't desensitised to all things robotics, so I shift her in my arms until her brow rests against my collarbone. In another universe, a version of me might carry his sleeping daughter from the car to her bed like this. 

That was a strange thought. 

I've been watching too many movies. It's that or watch the grass grow and the organisms evolve.

And look, I'm not one for denial. The way I feel about Rose is all-consuming. She is the reason I do this. Every hero needs something to fight for; a daughter might be a very cliched reason, but that doesn't stop her from being mine. No one else would have come with me, and why would I need or want anyone else, anyway?

I place her on my worktable with the care she deserves. There's a scratch down her cheek that I don't remember causing. I trace the thin line with a finger, replaying the fight in my head. Perhaps it's from some independent carelessness. It'll buff out. She'll be perfect again soon. I touch it again. It bothers me that I don't know what it's from. I could make something up, but I'd rather _know._ I pull my hand away. 

The rest of her body deserves my close attention as well. Her soul is safe, naturally. To paraphrase E. E. Cummings, I carry her heart in my heart. 

What? I read poetry. I'm practically omniscient, of course I know famous 20th century poets. And anyway, it was reciprocal. She read Derrida. Believe me, mine was the lesser sacrifice. 

I won't compliment my sword for its sharp edge, nor my hand for the clean execution. I don't need to, because the wound I delivered does that for me. It's beautiful, it scores from her hip to her breast in one lovely diagonal, almost following the line of her robe. And damn am I lucky that I have the captcha for that memorised, because it's fucking shredded. I grab the two halves where it's torn and rip it the rest of the way off. Orange looks good on her. Almost as good as purple looks on me.

Her body suit is cut through as well, naturally, but it's of a black, rubbery material that's supposed to protect her and does, when I'm not involved. I peel it back from the inconel plating beneath. I actually managed to alchemise some adamantium when I was screwing around with robot designs back on Earth C. What's fiction to Sburb? Just another thing to exploit. But I wasn't going to use that. Apart from the fact that its work hardening properties are even more difficult to manage than inconel, I honestly don't know if I'd be able to pierce it with my katana, rad as it is. And the katana is non-negotiably my weapon. 

Inconel is hard e-fucking-nough as it is. Was used on nuclear reactors and spaceships. Hell, was used in Jags. And it's a son of a bitch to take apart or put together, but I brought this on myself. I have to see what internal elements I've damaged. Might as well have some company while I do it. 

Rosebot's eyes brighten to their rightful shade of red. Her hands lift and I grab her wrists and push them back against the bench before she can fuck anything up. That's on me, I should have limited her movement. I do so now and feel the resistance leave her. 

'Good morning,' she says, so sunnily that it's impossible to hear sincerity in her voice. 'It seems I am malfunctioning. Press "Y" to confirm.'

'You're very funny,' I tell her.

She plays a canned laugh track from her speakers. I think it's from _Cheers._ I don't guess out loud. I have better things to do. I pick up my welding helmet and fit it on over the top of my shades until it clicks into place. My setup used to make Jake laugh every time, until it didn't. It's the most sensible way to keep my computing power, though. It also looks rad as hell and it's ironic, so there's no need to change it. 

'I got you,' Rosebot says. 'Even with all your advantages, you still can take a hit. Tell me how it feels, as I have ascended beyond pain and cannot remember.'

I look down at my forearm. Fuck. I'd forgotten about that and was just walking around with a fucking hole in my arm. I should have dealt with it while she was still offline. 

'This thing?' I ask. 'Mosquitos have done more damage. I've offered you a sword.'

'I like my needles. They are excellent conductors for magic.'

'Which is off limits in our duels, for your own good.'

'Our "duels" are just practice. I like my strife specibus as it is.'

'God _damn,_ you're stubborn.'

'I have your chin, too.'

I turn on my saw. I can't exactly go and patch myself up now that I've started this. I wish she hadn't drawn my attention to it. I can feel each beat of my heart pressing out a dribble more of blood, invigorating nerves that are broadcasting my injury to my brain in the misguided hope that I'll disgrace myself by paying it any mind. I touch the blade to her side seam and begin the process of opening her up.

'If I keep improving, I might do you serious injury.'

'We'll see.'

'You are not a robot.'

'Well observed.'

'I cannot put you back together this easily.'

'You have access to all of WebMD. You'll figure it out.'

'What is the _point_ of this new world if I don't have you?'

'Jeez, Rosebot. Maybe don't kill me then.'

'No, not computing. I'll have to run the numbers on that one.'

I sigh. I don't think she hears me over the saw. I consider turning it off so that she can. No, that would be giving her too much. I indulge her, but I can only go so far.

I pull my helmet up and onto my forehead and run my fingers over the wires I've exposed, not because I think they're damaged, they're not in the right area for that, I just like to touch. I built her. Me. I take her apart and put her together again and hold her life in my hands. She has no choice, of course. But I like to think she'd let me even if she did.

'You're going to bleed on me,' she says. 'I would like not to damaged further by your incompetence.'

'It's clotted,' I say, not looking.

'You're going to open it back up by moving,' she says.

I sigh. In all honesty, the excuse to tend to my wound is not unappreciated, but I can't have her knowing that. I take my hands out of her and pull my gloves off. The right one is tacky with drying blood. Gross. I drop both on the bench next to her and cross to my first aid kit.

'Let me watch,' she says.

'Dirty,' I remark.

I bring the kit back to her and shift some of my tools so that I can sit on the bench next to her. I take her chin in my fingers and move it so that it's pointed in the right direction. I like this, that she's mine to move. To puppet. I adjust her angle unnecessarily, lingering. There's nothing unreasonable about this. I don't have to justify myself to you.

I clean the wound with saline and cotton balls, feeling the edges and watching the glint of reflection in her glowing eyes. Just touching it prompts more blood to leak out, but it needs to be done. With more cotton balls, I apply antiseptic cream and then I spray it with antibacterial medicine. 

'Do you think I need stitches, nurse?' I ask. 

'Do you honestly need me to tell you that you do?' she asks. 'I estimate I got at least half an inch deep. You're lucky it's not worse.'

'If you'd let me fix you first, you could have done it,' I say.

'You'll only need two,' she says. 

'Yay,' I say flatly.

I've given myself a lot of stitches over the years. The worst was the large cut that went deep over my stomach and shallower over my ribs, because it inhibited me every time I wanted to move. Where Rosebot has stabbed me won't really bother me so long as I ignore the pain. 

'You didn't stab my arms,' she says quietly, 'I _can_ do this for you.'

'I don't know that your motor function is perfect right now,' I say.

'The angle is terrible for you, Dirk. I promise I won't do it if I don't think I can.'

I look at her for a long moment. She stares right back. There's a challenge here and I don't think it's one where I prove how independent I am. After all, I'm covered in scars I've dealt with on my own. But do I care that she's challenging me to trust her?

Christ, like that even needs to be proven. She's _here,_ isn't she? I can't put a higher compliment to her name. I entrusted my naked soul to her touch when this had barely begun. I trust her to live in my heart.

'Alright,' I say, and I release the commands keeping her immobile. Just in her head and arms; I still don't want her to jostle her internal components.

She takes the curved needle and threads it, disinfects it and holds it ready. She looks up at me for confirmation and I nod.

'I got you,' she murmurs.

'You did,' I agree.

'And I have you now.'

I hesitate. She applies one stitch and I realise I forgot the numbing cream that's sitting in the kit right there. I bet that _she_ didn't forget it. She applies the second stitch.

'You have me,' I concede, and my voice is very fucking steady. I'm above pain.

I allow her to clean the fresh blood that's dripped down my arm in various directions, to my elbow while I was cleaning it and to my wrist when I held it for her to stitch. 

'Bring it to my lips so I can kiss it better,' she says. 

'You're hysterical.'

'Did you not program me with that ability?'

'Must have slipped my mind.'

She bandages it with firm pressure. The bleeding isn't really stopping, and I don't know how long it was bleeding during the fight and then on our fly home. There's blood all over the floor, so it was bleeding while I got organised in here. I'm a god, I'll be fine. It'll just be a bitch to clean up. Maybe I'll make her do it.

I take away her autonomy again and pack away the first aid kit. 

'Your turn,' I say. 

'My turn,' she agrees. 

You probably want me to describe how I assess her components, how I test the integrity of her wiring and correct the places I have damaged. Perhaps you expect me to get downright poetic in the face of my creation and destruction. But let's face it. You wouldn't understand a damn word. So I'll leave it at this: I fix her. It takes hours.

'You take such good care of me,' she says mockingly as I solder her closed.

'You'd think it'd bring me better thanks than a needle in the arm,' I say.

'It will,' she promises. 

She means . . .

I don't know what she means. These dark spots are escalating from something that could be my oversight to something that she's doing and I don't _like_ it. But fuck that, I don't need authorial power to know what she means. 

She means that she'll hurt me again, and worse. Something better than she gave me this time, maybe something that will cost my life. 

No.

She means that she'll give me the kind of appreciation that a—Jesus _Christ,_ no. No, I'm not thinking that. She doesn't get to put that in my head when it's not a joke. Which this undoubtedly is, but this time it's getting to me in a way it never does. 

'You look troubled,' she says.

'Trouble doesn't touch me,' I say. 'I've lived a blessed and uneventful life. I pass my days grinning at the sky and get about by clicking my heels with my goddamned hand in my pants.'

'Of course, I forgot who I was talking to.' She swings herself off the bench so that she's right in front of me. Too close. I don't step backwards, but I want to.

'I'm going to alchemise myself a new dress,' she says. 'Unless you think the nudist look suits me.'

I keep my eyes on hers. She's not naked, she's a robot. I crafted her and literally just peeled back even the layer of black bodysuit that covers her now. It's what people on a different planet might call revealing, but there's nothing to be revealed, because she's a robot. So why do I want to look?

'You could upgrade your look while you're there,' I suggest carelessly, as if I think she could and should be improved.

She smiles at me knowingly and stands on her toes (face closer to mine, I don't have to look down so far, but my gaze slips down further instead of rising with her) so that she can turn in the ballet-adjacent way that she's developed since becoming a machine with perfect control over her movements. She moves gracefully en pointe out of the room, leaving me to my thoughts.

Which are uneventful, by the way. The thing is, Rose is always fucking with me. That's her thing. And sometimes it even works, as is appropriate for the daughter of a genius. Sometimes she lands a hit.

You want to know what it really is? It's ego. It’s narcissism. She's as close to me as a person gets, now that I've taken care of all my other splinters. Not only that, but she's a walking reminder of my own competence that I can still dominate. You hear how many issues I have? Adding something as mundane as _this_ would be nothing.

God, and that's not even addressing how I'm alone on a planet with the one person I love more than anyone in the world and she's supposed to be off-limits because of some archaic tradition established on a world where reproduction wasn't done primarily through slime. She _is_ off-limits. She's fucking with me. This isn't a fuckin' Folgers commercial.

And yet, I could own her completely.

But let me give you a refresher on my powers, just in case you've somehow missed how they work. I write, present tense. I don't overwrite, I don't edit what has been written, I don't fantasise. I write, and I write things that are consistent with what my readers know to be true, regardless of my estimation of their collective intelligence. 

I could write her giving up her entire world for me, because she was in a desperate position and I showed her a way through. And you bought it, didn't you? I can write her doing anything she might possibly do. And she wouldn't do this, would she.

No, I'm pretty sure she wouldn't do this. Not unless I wrote enough establishing . . . No. I'm not going to do that. Really. This story is fuckin’ over.


End file.
